


How To Care For Your Human: A Dog's Guide To Pet Ownership

by watanuki_sama



Category: Common Law
Genre: Dog fic, Doggy fluff, Gen, So much doggy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:32:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow These 10 Simple Steps And Your Human Will Live A Long And Healthy Life! (Or, Wes does not so much adopt a dog as get adopted.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Care For Your Human: A Dog's Guide To Pet Ownership

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on FF.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 06.15.15.

_“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”_  
_—Roger Caras_

\---  
   
1\. _Exersize your human daily._

His stalker catches up to him halfway through his morning run. Wes lasts five minutes before he turns and risks the confrontation. Feet planted, hands on his hips, he makes eye contact and says in a firm, authoritative voice, “No.”

He is met with a happy grin and bright eyes that make no notion of comprehending him.

Wes holds out a hand, one finger raised admonishingly. “ _No_ ,” he says, even more firmly this time. “Stop following me.”

The grin continues, unabated. Then, like a switch being flipped, the tail starts wagging.

Wes sighs and drops his hand, staring at the dog in front of him. “Why won’t you just leave me _alone?_ ” A week he’s been running, the dog following his every step. An entire week, and nothing he’s done has made any difference. He’s tried ignoring it, avoiding it, even flat-out commanding it to leave him alone, and nothing. Absolutely nothing.

If Travis knew about this, he would fall out of his chair laughing, and then make some comment about how Wes isn’t the alpha male he thinks he is.

There is a reason Travis does not know about this.

The dog, taking Wes’s dropped hand as permission, trots forward, nosing eagerly at his fingers. Grimacing, Wes pulls back, wiping his hand on his shorts. “Abso _lute_ ly not. I don’t have any food for you. Go away. Shoo, shoo.” He flaps his hand, but that just makes the creature lick at his palm.

Disgusted, Wes takes two steps back. Seriously, what did he do in a past life to deserve this? All he wanted to do was enjoy his morning run, not get assaulted by a stray dog.

It’s definitely a stray. There’s no collar, and the animal’s rust-colored coat is shaggy and dirty. But, now that he’s looking with a more critical eye, not _excessively_ shaggy, and it’s still so friendly towards people. Perhaps a _recent_ stray, one who hasn’t had time to become wary of people.

In that case…

He tries something new. Holding out his hand, flat with the palm out, he commands, “Sit.”

Obediently, the dog’s rump plops to the ground. Wes grins. A recent stray with obedience training. _Perfect_.

He backs up a step. “Stay,” he orders, and the dog sits right where it is. The tail wags, and those bright eyes follow him, but the animal makes no move to come after him.

_Wonderful_.

Wes takes a few more steps away, keeping a wary eye on the dog. It continues to stay where it is, in the middle of the path, watching him. Wes waits until he’s a dozen feet away before turning and resuming his run.

It isn’t long before Wes hears the patter of feet behind him, and he drops his head.

So. A recent stray who’d apparently _failed_ obedience training.

Lovely.

\---

2\. _Make sure your human is sufficiently hydrated._

After two weeks, Wes gives up. There’s nothing he can do to make the dog leave him alone, so he pretends like it doesn’t bother him. The dog continues to follow faithfully in his wake as he runs, stopping when he does, and at the end, when he’s cooling down on the park bench, the dog waits patiently in front of him.

Wes thinks he’s almost gotten used to it, which is a scarier thought than being adopted by the stray in the first place. He doesn’t _want_ to get used to it, because then he’ll get complacent. He’ll start letting his guard down, and that is just…no. He remembers what happened with Hudson, and he’s not going to allow himself to get attached to some stray mutt.

“I don’t care about you,” he grumbles, taking a swig from his water bottle. “I don’t. You mean nothing to me.”

He’s met with that familiar, stupid grin and a slow swipe of tail across the grass. Wes sighs and brings the bottle up for another swallow. The dog’s gaze follows the motion; Wes pauses, staring at the animal. Experimentally, he extends his arm to the side. The dog tracks it, eyes bright.

“No.” Wes shakes his head, bringing his water bottle back in front of him. “I don’t care. Really. I _don’t_.” He takes a defiant sip and pretends not to notice the suddenly-mournful gaze being sent his way. It’s not his problem. It’s _not_.

_The dog likes you_ , a voice says in his head, one that sounds annoyingly like Travis. (Why not? Travis would be _all over_ the dog if he were here, rolling around in the grass and getting dirty and buying hot dogs from the cart over there. Because Travis is an unhygienic _idiot_.)

“It’s not my dog,” Wes grumbles to himself, scowling at the animal. “You’re not my dog. I don’t even like you. Go away.”

Liquid brown eyes should not be capable of expressing so much sorrow. It’s just _wrong_.

“Not my problem,” Wes repeats to himself, but with much less conviction this time. The Travis-voice in his head is poking at his conscience, and while the dog may not be _his_ , per say, it’s definitely taken a liking to him. Letting it waste away of thirst would be a crime in and of itself. He can’t in any way be responsible for a _crime_ , now can he?

Sighing, Wes climbs to his feet. “I’m not doing this for you,” he says sternly, and the dog bounds to its feet and licks his finger.

Rolling his eyes, Wes heads to the hot dog vendor. He has to pay fifty cents, but he gets one of the little cardboard boats for the hot dogs. Returning to the bench, the dog trailing faithfully behind, he sets the container on the ground and pours some of his water into it. The dog eagerly begins lapping it up.

“This isn’t for you,” he says again, even as he’s pouring more water into the cardboard boat. “I just don’t want to have to deal with my guilty conscience when you keel over from heatstroke. This is for _me_ , not for you.”

The dog laps up every drop of water he gives it. Then it leaps on him and gives him happy sloppy kisses before he can pull away, and Wes regrets everything.

Next time, he thinks, he’ll use water from the fountain, instead of wasting his precious bottled water on the dog.

(Half an hour later he sternly scolds himself and says there will _be_ no next time. 

Even though he knows there will be.)

\---

3\. _Play is important for growing humans, so play with your human every day._

He’s going through some of his boxes in the garage when he finds a container of tennis balls. Brand new, never been opened, but they’re tucked in with his stuff which means they probably haven’t been touched in years. Wes frowns at them for a long minute before heading inside.

“Hey, Alex, do you play tennis?”

His ex-wife glances up, shaking her head at the tennis balls in his hands. “Nope. Not since college.”

“Okay.” Wes turns to go. He pauses and looks at the tennis balls. He turns back with a sigh. “Can I have these?”

She glances over, an eyebrow going up and a curious upward tilt to her lips. “Sure, I guess. Have you picked up tennis?”

“I’m going to keep them in my desk drawer and throw them for Travis when he gets bored,” he quips over his shoulder, and she laughs.

He doesn’t keep them in his desk drawer. He keeps them in his glove box, and when he goes to the park for his morning run, he grabs one of them and carries it with him.

Sure enough, he soon hears the patter of four feet following him. Without looking behind him, Wes tosses the tennis ball as hard as he can to the side. There’s a hearty bark behind him, then the dog goes streaking into the grass.

Wes does not hope that the dog will get lost on the way back to him. And he does not hope that someone else will pick up the ball and throw it and the dog will latch onto them. He knows better. So when the dog returns, tennis ball held in its teeth and tail wagging hard enough to power a car, Wes just sighs and makes a motion with his hand. The dog obediently drops the ball to the ground; Wes gingerly picks it up with two fingers and flings it away from him once more.

It’s a game the dog doesn’t grow tired of. No matter how often or how far Wes throws the ball, the animal comes bounding back with an increasingly-slobbery tennis ball. Stupid, really, to think that throwing the ball might distract the dog long enough for him to get away. At the end of his run, he falls onto the bench and covers his face with his hand. So stupid.

With a wet ‘plop!’, the dog deposits the ball onto his shoes.

“Ugh, ew, that’s nasty.” Wes kicks it away with his toe, nose wrinkling in disgust. The dog bounds after it, returning triumphant with the bright green ball clasped between its teeth.

Wes scowls. “No. No more. I’ve touched that more than enough today.”

The dog’s ears flatten, clearly understanding the word ‘No’. It drops the ball at his shoes again, looking up at him with big brown eyes.

“Ha. You think that works on me? I work with Travis. I can handle anything you throw my way. Just try me.” He sits back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not gonna do it.”

The dog whimpers pitifully, and somehow manages to get even sadder and more pathetic looking. Wes doesn’t budge. Except for the days when he just doesn’t want to deal with Travis’s shit, he has withstood every attack of the puppy dog eyes Travis has sent at him. He’s had plenty of practice for this. 

Steely resolve wins out over pitiful pleading. The dog huffs a sigh and rolls on its side, revealing a lack of certain anatomical characteristics that answer the question of gender. Wes quirks his lips and says, “Good girl,” and the dog’s tail gives a little thump. The canine’s mouth parts in a toothy grin as she stares up at him, and he finds he can’t help smiling back.

He takes a quick swallow of water to cover it up. He is not, of course, getting attached to the dog in any way, and there’s no reason to show her any sign of affection that might make her misjudge him or his intentions.

So saying, he still tucks the soggy tennis ball in the corner of his trunk when he packs up, and he gives the dog an absent pat on the head before he leaves. And when he arrives in the morning, he starts out his run with the ball in hand, waiting for the first sign of the dog’s approach.

\---

4\. _If your human is sad, then at least make sure they’re not lonely._

It’s late when he wanders to the park, falling heavily onto the bench. He tilts his head back, staring up at the leaves above him and the slowly darkening sky, streaked with pinks and oranges and the first hints of dark, deep blues. He doesn’t move for a long time, despite the inherent risks in sitting on a park bench as night approaches. Anyone could come up—muggers, murderers, anyone with a hint of deviancy in their minds, and he wouldn’t even care right now.

Someone eventually does approach the bench, long toenails clicking on the concrete sidewalk. The dog bounds up with her usual enthusiasm, huffing happily when she stops in front of him, but Wes doesn’t even look at her.

“Not today, girl,” he sighs, staring at a pinpoint of light that might be a star. Or it might just be a helicopter. In LA, there’s not much difference.

She wuffs softly at him. Wes closes his eyes and takes a breath. He’s too weary to deal with this right now. He doesn’t want to _play_.

“ _No_ ,” he orders to the sky.

There’s a confused huff in front of him. Sighing, he lifts his head and looks at the canine. As soon as she sees she has his attention, she goes low to the ground, butt in the air and tail wagging.

He just shakes his head. “I’m not playing today.” He can’t even muster up the energy to sound stern. Mostly he just sounds tired.

She hears it. She hears _something_ , at least, because she slowly rises, staring at him with her head tilted to the side, looking more quizzical than he’d have thought a dog could get. He nods slightly, a little motion to say _That’s right, I won’t play so go away now_ , and then drops his head back once more.

He doesn’t want to play. He doesn’t even want to _think_. He doesn’t want to do _anything_ except sit here and be numb so he doesn’t have to feel the crushing weight of defeat in his chest. 

If he closes his eyes, he can still see those children, so small and broken—

He snaps his eyes open and takes a long, shaky breath, running his hand down his face.

Travis is probably at a bar somewhere, attempting to drown the day in alcohol. He’ll no doubt find some pretty young thing to curl up with and spend the night burying terrible memories in flesh and sweat until the blood is all but gone.

But Wes has an empty hotel room and an easy-access bar that’s much too easy to get lost inside, and he’s afraid that getting lost in his head would be even more dangerous than staying sober.

A fuzzy, heavy head settles on his knee. When he looks down, big brown eyes stare up at him, innocent and pure and entirely devoid of evil.

“It’d be better if everyone were dogs,” he mutters, fingers slowly settling atop between her ears. He gives a few half-hearted scratches, but that’s apparently more than enough because her tail gives a slow wag. “Dogs don’t go around murdering children over custody agreements.”

It’s always worse with children, and now he doesn’t even have Alex to hold until he can function. Now he just has an empty park bench and a four-legged stray who doesn’t even understand what’s going on.

She just stares up at him, bright-eyed and calm, solemn in a way he wouldn’t have expected from the rambunctious dog. It matches his mood, almost, and even that slight glimmer of company makes him feel...not better, but it’s almost tolerable. 

He ends up sitting there a long time, the dog’s head resting heavy on his leg, grounding him and keeping him from spinning into the horrors his job etches into his brain. When it’s time to leave, he almost hesitates, wanting to bring the dog with him.

But she’s not his dog, and the hotel won’t let him bring animals anymore.

He goes home alone.

\---

5\. _Give your human baths, as needed._

“Good _god_ , what did you _roll_ in?”

She bounds up to him, as eager and happy as always. He throws his arm over his nose and backs away. Thinking this is all some new fun game, she follows, prancing eagerly.

“You have a nose ten times better than a human. How can you not smell that?” He keeps backing away, to no avail; she persists, because she has attached herself to him and he has _allowed_ her to attach to him, and really, he should have known better. He should have known something like this would happen.

She’s a _stray_. There are so many things she could have rolled in.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to go swim in the lake, would you?” She stares up at him, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, and he sighs heavily. No, that wouldn’t do any good. Then he’d have _wet dog_ to add to the cacophony of odors assailing him.

No, what she needs is a _bath_.

He groans. “I’m going to regret this.”

He has three spare towels in the trunk of his car, just in case. He lays them all out in a protective drape over the passenger seat. He opens every window to its fullest, and then coaxes the dog into the car. She sits, practically wiggling in excitement, and Wes chokes a little when he climbs into the driver’s seat. In the open air, the stench was bad. In the confines of the car, it’s overpowering.

The dog spends the entire time with her head out the window. Wes very nearly does the same. 

He makes one stop on the way, and when he climbs back into the car his eyes actually water. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he grumbles without heat, which just prompts the dog to lean over and try to kiss him. He shoves her head back out the window. It doesn’t help much.

As soon as he gets to Alex’s house, he snaps on the brand-new collar and leash he bought at the pet store and leads the dog into the backyard. Alex isn’t home yet, but technically the yard is still half his, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to do this. Ordering the dog to sit and stay (which always works so well), Wes goes and drags the hose around back.

By the time Alex returns home and wanders out with a mug in hand, he’s on his knees in the grass, trying to wrestle a slick, wet canine into stillness so he can actually _wash_ her instead of just scrubbing patches here and there. He’s almost as wet and soapy as the dog—there is, in fact, a distinct possibility that he is _more_ wet and soapy than the dog. She seems to think it’s a great big game, stupid mutt.

Alex raises her eyebrows, watching it all with a highly amused cast to her face. “This is…” She falters, biting back the grin that threatens to spill out of her lips. “I’m not quite sure what this is.”

“This is a dog, Alex.”

“Very cute.” She takes a sip of her drink, leaning on the rail. “Is it yours?”

“Absolutely not.” He grabs the dog’s collar and does his very best to hold the wiggly animal still. “She’s just some stray that won’t leave me alone. Hold _still_ , dammit.” This last bit is directed towards the dog.

“I see.” Wes is glad she’s getting such amusement out of this, because he’s really not having as much fun as anyone else is. Even the dog is having the time of her life. Wes is just getting frustrated. A bit how he normally gets with Travis, actually.

Oh god, this dog grates on his nerves _exactly_ like Travis. No _wonder_ he lets her keep following him. He’s got Stockholm syndrome.

If only he’d realized this sooner, he could have avoided all of this.

Eventually, long after he thought she must have finally gotten tired of watching the spectacle, Alex asks, “What’s her name?”

“I call her Rusty,” Wes answers absently, taking advantage of a momentary breather to scrub the dog’s belly into a sudsy mass of bubbles.

Alex makes a little noise. “You always were so literal, weren’t you?”

There’s an odd catch to her voice that makes him look up, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What?”

She’s not even hiding her smile anymore. “Nothing. It’s absolutely nothing.” But it’s that tone of voice that says it’s _something_ , and Wes is about to push the issue.

The dratted dog gives herself a mighty shake, sending bubbles and water splashing everywhere—mostly over Wes.

“Seriously? _Seriously?_ ” She grins unrepentantly, tail wagging happily, and at the railing, Alex laughs helplessly, and the sound is so unexpected and sweet that the question slips from his mind.

\---

6\. _Protect your human from all harm._

The body is in the park he does his morning runs at, and the body is still warm. Half of his mind is organizing a search party—with the killing this recent, the perp could still be nearby, if they get there in time.

The other half of his mind is absently searching for Rusty, hoping that she will stay out of the way and won’t recognize him and bound up. Last thing he needs is some random stray rushing up to greet him while he’s in the middle of a crime scene. Travis would _never_ let him live it down.

Rusty doesn’t appear. Maybe the smell of blood and death is enough to put her off. Wes is mildly grateful. He really doesn’t need the ridicule or teasing that is sure to follow if Travis finds out about the dog.

They gather what evidence they can from the scene, then split up, Travis going with a group of officers heading west, Wes taking his people east. More officers head in the other directions, spreading from the body outward. They can’t canvas the entire park in time, but hopefully if they move with broad strokes, they’ll find _something_. 

The officers he’s with get farther away as they head further from the body. Still close enough to see, but far enough he’ll have to shout to bring them back. And there’s nothing around, nothing to indicate their killer is right in his vicinity, but Wes gets a little uneasy. His hand has been on his gun this entire time; now he pulls it out, scanning the area, behind every tree and bush.

There’s a prickling at the back of his neck, the kind made when someone is watching you. Wes glances around, but there’s no one in sight, not even a squirrel. Then he hears a rustle from above, and he has time to glance up and think _Oh shit_ before the man leaps down on him.

The guy has the element of surprise and velocity on his side. Before Wes can even get his gun up, he’s hit, his gun scattering as two-hundred-plus pounds lands on him. He just barely manages to avoid being squashed under the guy. Still, he lands hard on his shoulder, the breath knocked out of him.

There’s a gun in the man’s hand, and Wes almost wants to laugh. Hey, he found their guy. Not that it’ll do him much good. His gun is three feet away and he’s too winded to holler for the other officers.

At least the gunshot will bring them running.

The man’s hand comes up, hand shaking but close enough to count, and Wes is _pissed_ , he’s going to die on the ground, taken by surprise from a man in a tree! And there’s nothing he can do except wheeze for air and push himself up on his elbows. Even if he had the breath, he can’t outrun a bullet. All he can do is tense and wait for the end and the guy’s finger tightens—

There’s a snarl, and a yelp, and a gunshot, in short succession. Wes flinches, despite himself, but there’s a distinct lack of pain. When he focuses on the scene, he has to take an extra second just to comprehend what he’s seeing.

Rusty has appeared out of nowhere and latched onto the gunman’s arm, a low, continuous rumble falling from her throat. The man has dropped his gun and is attempting to get the dog off his arm, but she’s hanging on with everything she’s got, even tightening her grip, if the man’s yelp is anything to go by.

Wes has managed to climb to his feet and collect his own gun by the time the other officers and Travis rush up. They surround the man, and Rusty backs away, seeming to understand that these are good guys. All Wes can do is stare at the dog.

Two officers lead the cuffed gunman to a car. Travis immediately holsters his gun and drops to his knees, using that charm of his to instantly woo the dog. “Who’s a good doggy?” he coos, gripping her face in his hands and rubbing. “Who’s a good doggy who saved my partner?”

“Not even gonna ask how your partner is doing?” Wes grumbles half-heartedly, sliding his own weapon into place.

“Eh,” Travis dismisses. “You’re on your feet, you’re not bleeding. You’re fine. You, on the other hand,” he switches back over to the baby talk as his attention turns to the dog once more. “You’re such a _good doggy_. Who’s gonna get all the hot dogs? You are, yes you _are_.”

Rusty accepts the adulations as her due, rolling onto her side so belly rubs can be applied. Travis obliges.

“No collar,” he observes, liberally scratching behind the ear. “But she doesn’t _act_ like a stray. Who do you belong to, huh? Who’s your daddy, girl?” Travis pauses, nose scrunching. “Wow, that sounded a lot better in my head.”

Wes steps towards the pair, looking down at the dog that saved his life. She stares up at him, eyes bright and tongue lolling, and when she sees him her tail starts thumping on the ground in delight.

“She’s mine.” 

The words startle him, in that he hadn’t explicitly meant to say them, but they’re not untrue. It’s something he hadn’t realized was true until his very moment, but…yeah. It’s absolutely correct.

Travis gapes up at him, though his hands don’t stop their ministrations. “What do you mean, she’s _yours?_ ”

Wes wiggles his fingers. Rusty leaps to her feet and bounds over, rubbing against his legs as he tousles his fingers between her ears. And the smile, aimed down at the dog at his feet, is unbearably fond.

“Yeah. She’s mine.”

\---

7\. _Encourage socialization for your human by organizing playdates._

“I cannot _believe_ you!”

Wes blinks at his partner, arm paused mid-motion. “Um. What?”

An accusing finger is thrust into his face. “You! You had a _date_ , and you didn’t _tell me!_ ”

Wes blinks again. “No I don’t. What? I— _What?_ I don’t have a _date_.”

“Then what do you call _this_ , huh?” Travis’s arm spreads wide and encompassing. “You and Rusty had a date with Hudson, and you didn’t _tell_ me! What kind of partner _are_ you?”

Wes finally gets it, and he sighs. _This_ was one of the reasons he didn’t want to tell Travis about the dog in the first place. Travis is going to be such an asshole about the dog, Wes just _knows_ it. Wes hasn’t even got tags for her yet and it’s already started.

“You’re an idiot,” he says calmly, holding out his hand. Rusty, trotting up, spits the slobbery tennis ball into his hand and races after it when he flings it away. Wes watches her go. Travis watches him.

“Damn,” he says, and something in his voice is a little bit awed. “You really love the dog, huh.”

“She saved my life, Travis,” Wes points out.

“No, I mean, yeah, but…” Travis waves a hand. Rusty, bouncing back, drops the ball at his feet. Grinning, Travis picks it up and tosses it. “That, man, that was a well-loved tennis ball. You didn’t get that today, or even a week ago. You’ve had that, and you’ve thrown it, and you’ve been getting dog slobber all over your hands for who-knows how long.” He smiles, a little bit impish and infinitely amused. “You love the dog.”

It’s Wes’s turn to throw the ball now. He does. “I…am fond of the dog,” he says, which is more than a little revealing and they both know it. After a second, he glances over. “Randi’s not here, you know. She had to leave ten minutes ago.”

“I know.” Travis crouches down, giving Rusty a big kiss when she deposits the ball in his lap. “But your dog is, so…” He shrugs, meaning obvious. And it kind of is, Travis being the dog-lover that he is.

They take turns throwing the ball for a few minutes, letting the silence between them settle. Finally, after the ball has sailed through the air several more times, Wes ventures forth with, “I found a house I like. Up on Paloma Drive.”

“Yeah?” Travis’s voice is calm, his smile warm as he accepts the slobbery tennis ball from Rusty. “I know the area. Nice neighborhood.”

“I thought so.” Wes watches the ball get launched into the air. He shrugs and keeps his words deliberately casual when he asks, “Do you want to come by and see it sometime?”

Travis’s hesitation is small, but noticeable. “Because…you need my approval on the house?” He grins, that particular delight in his eye when he teases Wes. “Aww, I didn’t know my opinion mattered so much to you.”

“It _doesn’t_ ,” Wes corrects forcefully, sending the ball sailing a little harder than he intended. “I just figured you’re going to be over all the time to see the dog, you might as well know where the house is.” He gives his head a firm shake, a sort of _What was I thinking?_ motion. “Nevermind. The offer is recanted.”

“Sure, I’ll come by and see the place. Does Saturday work?”

“ _Recanted_ , Travis. That means you’re not invited anymore.”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see about that.”

When Rusty returns with the ball, the two men are grappling in the grass. The dog stares at them for a moment, head tilted curiously to the side.

Then, with an exuberant woof, she drops the ball and leaps into the fray. In the end, there is only one clear winner, panting happily as she drapes herself across the fallen men.

Wes groans and thumps his head back, staring at the bright blue sky. “Yes, dammit, Saturday is fine.”

And that settles that.

\---

8\. _Make sure your human has a good house to live in…_

The little house on Paloma Drive doesn’t look like much from the front. Wes can practically feel Travis keeping his comments in check. Seriously, the man is practically vibrating with the effort not to say what’s on his mind.

Wes sighs, waving a hand. “Go ahead, say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever you want to say. Make fun of the house. Whatever.” He likes it, and whatever Travis is going to say won’t change that. He just wants Travis to get it out now, rather than later.

His partner shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, I like it. It’s…uh…I… _appreciate_ the industrial shade of hospital green they used on the outside. It’s…inspired.”

Wes rolls his eyes. “The color is hideous. Obviously, I’m going to change it.”

“Oh thank god,” Travis sighs in relief. “I wasn’t sure you’d noticed.”

“I’m not colorblind, dumbass.”

“No, you’re not, but I know someone who is.” Mid-sentence, Travis’s voice goes from normal to baby-dog-cooing, and he bends down to affectionately rub Rusty’s ears. She wags her tail, tongue lolling as she accepts the affection.

Wes rolls his eyes again. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

The inside is better than the outside. No hospital green walls, at least. It’s smaller than his former house with Alex, and only one story, but it’s more than enough for a single man and his dog. There are two bedrooms, so he can have an office or a guest room, and while there’s only one bathroom, the living room area is one big open space with just enough room to fit the piano. Plus the kitchen has just been remodeled and all the new appliances make Wes’s hands itch to cook.

Travis pokes around, Rusty following on his heels like she’s taking notes. “Not bad, not bad,” Travis mutters, mostly to himself, but loud enough for Wes to hear. Wes ignores him, for the most part.

He’s already decided. This is going to be his house, that’s all there is to it. He put in an offer last Tuesday, and now it’s just a matter of waiting for the paperwork to go through. Then comes the inspection and the physical process of moving in, but still. It’s something.

Wes stands in the living room of his new home and lets out a long, slow breath. It feels like he’s letting something go; he sort of wishes it didn’t _also_ feel like he’s giving something up as well.

But maybe that’s just the way the world works. To get something, you have to give something up too.

He smiles as Rusty trots up to his side, letting his fingers scratch across the top of her head. She stares up at him, with those bright eyes and unflagging loyalty and joy, and he decides it’s worth it. He still has Alex, even if they’re not together anymore, and he’s still got Travis, and now he’s got Rusty. He’s going to be fine.

Travis pokes his head out of the bathroom. “Dude, are you _sure_ you’re not colorblind? ‘cause this tiling looks like the seventies just threw up in here.”

Wes just grins and moves to the back of the house. “Come look at the backyard.”

\---

9\. _…and a big yard to play in._

“Dude, you could host Jurassic Park back here,” is the first thing Travis says, upon seeing the huge expanse of the backyard. It was one of the main reasons Wes bought the house. The front yard and the house itself are modest, but the backyard…well, some would call it excessive.

Wes loves it.

The second thing Travis says, standing in the middle of the yard with his arms outstretched, is, “You should get a pool. You could totally fit a pool back here. Man, you could fit, like, _three_ pools back here.”

“I’m not getting a pool, Travis,” Wes says in what he thinks is a very reasonable manner.

“Wes, you need a pool. Think about the dog. What will poor Rusty do on those hot, endless summer days, with the sun shining down on her…” Travis waves a dramatic hand towards the canine, who is happily rooting through the bushes lining the yard.

Wes smiles insincerely. “Then we’ll get one of those kiddie pools. You know, the kind for three-year-olds. You can join her in it.”

“Oh, haha.” Travis tromps through the yard, taking note of the gardening patch, the little stone path, the overgrown grass that Wes will have a field day with. The yard is so big that it comfortably fits a nice wood patio at the opposite end, with a lovely little fire pit right in the center of it. Travis steps onto the patio, staring down at the fire pit, and when he turns his eyes are bright and his smile is a little bit manic.

“Oh, my friend, my partner, we are going to have an _awesome_ party!”

Which is how, despite his many, _many_ reluctant protests, Wes finds himself in the middle of a throng of people exactly one week after he gets the keys to his new house. There are people in the living room and people in the backyard and for god’s sake, he hasn’t even finished moving in yet!

“I hate you,” he grumbles, crossing his arms sourly.

Travis grins, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Man, this is an _awesome_ housewarming party. I had no idea you could get so many gift cards to Bed Bath and Beyond in one sitting.”

“I blame you for everything,” Wes grumbles, eyeing Rogers suspiciously as the man’s glass hovers much too close to the surface of the coffee table. _Use a coaster_ , he demands, attempting to use the telepathic powers he never had. _They’re right there, use them_.

“Rusty seems happy with the crowd,” Travis points out, momentarily distracting Wes from his mental exertions. Wes glances around the room and finds Rusty at the kitchen counter, nose peering over the edge as though she can _smell_ the food to her.

Wes sighs. “I’ll be right back.” He dislodges himself from Travis’s grasp, and by the time he’s wrestled his dog away from the food, Travis has moved across the room and Rogers has set his glass down right on the table.

“Barbarians,” he mutters, depositing the glass properly onto a coaster.

A familiar warm laugh tickles the air behind him. “You seem like you’re having fun.”

He turns, an affectionate smile curling his lips. “Alex. I’m glad you made it.”

Of course, then the moment is ruined when Rusty jumps up to say hello, nearly knocking Alex over. Wes drops his face in his hands and Alex laughs, a rich, delightful peal as she says hello to the dog.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, flushing. “She gets like that. She’s friendly.”

“So I can see.” Alex rubs Rusty vigorously until the dog is a wiggling bundle of enthusiasm. When she lets go, Rusty is ready for round two, and this time when Alex laughs, Wes can’t help but join in.

They end up, once Travis has managed to successfully lure Rusty away with the promise of mini sausages, on the patio, sitting on one of the low benches surrounding the fire pit. Someone gave him outdoor pillows for the area. Wes picks one up and turns it over in his hands, studying the garish floral pattern with more attention than it warrants.

“You look good,” Alex ventures, brushing her knee against his. “I’m glad you’re finally out of the hotel.”

Wes smiles down at the pillow. “Well, Rusty needed a home, so…” He shrugs, like it wasn’t that big of a deal, even though it kind of was.

She lets out a breath. “I’m glad, you know. That you found her.”

“Actually, it’s more like she found me.” He chuckles, and after a moment she joins in. The rich warmth of her laugh sends a tiny pang down his spine, but he thinks that’s always going to be there. The one who got away, and all that.

He thinks he’s finally moving on, and he’s okay with that.

“Either way,” Alex says, looking across the yard at the canine. “You found each other, and I’m glad. She’s good for you.”

Wes follows her gaze, a fond smile curling his lips as he looks at the dog. Rusty is hot on Travis’s heels, and his partner is holding a plate high above his head, looking a little amused, a little exasperated, and a little panicked at being on the receiving end of her ravenous attentions.

Wes sighs and leans against Alex, and agrees, “Yes, she is.”

\---

10\. _Above all else, love your human_.

Wes flops onto his bed with a groan. Over an hour of cleaning, and he’s still not even close to being done. This is why he hates parties. There’s a huge mess, and it’s always the host’s job to clean everything up.

“I’m going to drag Travis back here tomorrow and make him pick up every single scrap,” he grumbles to the ceiling. Oh, Travis will probably try to run, but Wes will hunt him down. He’ll use his dog and everything.

The dog in question wanders into the room, heavy even on the carpet. She pauses for a moment at the foot of the bed, studying the room.

Then she leaps up, landing right in the middle of Wes.

“Umph!” Wes shoves her aside and struggles to breathe. “Ugh, what the—no. No, you are _not_ sleeping here,” he declares upon rolling over and seeing Rusty making herself comfortable.

The dog blinks and continues circling on the right side of the bed. Wes knows that motion. That means she’s getting ready to sleep. _On the bed_. 

“Nope. Nu-uh. I don’t care _how_ much nicer this is than the park. You’re not sleeping on the bed.” He plants both hands in her side and pushes her off, pointing to the corner of the room. “I bought you a dog bed. _That’s_ where you sleep. Go.”

With a mournful, piteous look, she sulks to the dog bed and curls in an unhappy ball.

Wes climbs off the bed and gets ready for the night. The cleaning, he’ll save for tomorrow, when he can drag Travis here and make him help. The party _was_ Travis’s idea, after all, so he’ll damn well take some culpability in the aftermath.

When he returns to the bedroom, he’s not nearly as surprised as he should be to find Rusty on the bed again.

“No.” He crosses his arms and gives her his best Alpha-male stare. “Absolutely not. Off.”

She opens one brown eye, yawns lazily, and rolls over, taking up even more space. She has, it appears, no intention of moving.

“No. We’re not doing this. I’m establishing this right now. No dogs on the bed.” He snaps his fingers and points at the dog bed in the corner. “ _That_ is your bed. _That_ is where you sleep. _Go._ ”

She raises her head and gives him a big sad stare. He doesn’t give in, just continues pointing and stares her down until, with a tired doggy sigh, she slinks off the bed, her ears drooping.

“Good girl.” That gets her ears to perk up a little, at least, and she settles into the dog bed with less disgruntlement than before.

Wes turns out the light and lays back, waiting. He remembers Hudson, so he doesn’t expect that to be the end of it. 

Sure enough, only minutes pass before he hears Rusty moving, shuffling out of the dog bed. She thinks she’s sneaky; she’s much too big to properly be sneaky. Her heavy steps come right up to the side of the bed, and Wes waits for her bulk to thump onto the bed.

Nothing happens. After another moment, he opens his eyes and turns his head.

In the dim ambient light, he can see her. She’s got her chin resting on the edge of the bed and the light is making her big brown eyes shine.

When she sees him looking, she makes the most pathetic sound known to man.

“Seriously? You’re really doing this? This is blatant manipulation.”

She makes the sound again, tugging at his heartstrings. 

“You’re not even trying to be subtle,” he sighs, shifting. He pats the bed. “Fine. But only for one night. I’m not going to let you walk all over me. I’m the Alpha here.”

The last sentence gets a bit buried in fur and enthusiasm as Rusty responds to his summons and nearly smothers him in the process. But it’s a big bed, and they get settled, Wes on his back with Rusty cuddled up against his side, her head resting on his hip.

Wes exhales, fingers running through the soft fur on top of her head. Okay, maybe this isn’t so bad. She’s warm, and soft, and it’s nice to not be alone at night, even if his companion is a dog. Of course, he’s definitely not going to make a habit of this, because they have to establish ground rules, but still…

She snuggles into his touch, and he smiles to himself in the dark, thinking that maybe Alex was more right than she knew. Rusty is good for him, and they’re good for each other, and he’s luckier than he knew that she followed him and wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Good dog,” he murmurs, and the warmth at his side matches the glow of contentment in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Wes and dogs. How can you go wrong? Ever since Joint Custody I’ve wanted to do a dog!fic, and this is the end result. I really like this one. It’s adorable.


End file.
